


As You Wish (I Wish You Would)

by chameleon_666



Series: Soft Among The Blades [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Pining, The Princess Bride References, is this ooc? probably a bit. do i care? no i don't think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23432323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleon_666/pseuds/chameleon_666
Summary: Jaskier is warm, and Geralt has been cold for such a long time.Or, As You Wish from Geralt's perspective.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Soft Among The Blades [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685620
Comments: 6
Kudos: 241





	As You Wish (I Wish You Would)

**Author's Note:**

> You know I thought I'd gotten this fic out of my system and was ready to move on. 
> 
> Yet here we are. 
> 
> It's literally the same fic 1000 words longer and written from Geralt's POV. I Midnight Sun'd my own fic. 
> 
> I hope you like it.

Witchers don’t have emotions. They don’t feel, don’t love, don’t mourn, never want for anything but the next kill. 

Humans clung to that, it made it easier for them to comprehend how a Witcher could live so completely in service of violence, of death. 

Geralt had gone through his training thinking he was made wrong, that when they’d mutated his body they’d forgotten some key step, left his heart safely whole and untouched - failed to take his emotions out. It panicked him, and he would lay awake at night wondering whether he ought to tell someone that he’d been done wrong. Would they perform some ritual to scorch his heart? Or would they simply kill him and be done with it? He agonized over it, until the day he realized that the phrase so often repeated - “Witchers don’t feel,” was not truth, not fact - but instruction. It wasn’t innate in the making of him, but something he was expected to hone himself. 

Geralt became very good at pretending after that. He trained his face to default to a careful mask of neutral contempt, and he’d found that being taciturn, and frugal with his words was a good way not to tell on himself. He actually did feel quite a lot of things. Anger, mostly. Sadness, often. He wished sometimes that there truly was something in his biology preventing it. Something to numb him to the overwhelming waves which he had not even a bit of driftwood to help him weather. Drinking helped sometimes, but mostly made it worse. 

Geralt had big, big feelings that hurt quite a lot, and no idea what to do with any of them. 

So he just sort of pretended they weren’t happening. And he pretended that helped. 

Geralt didn’t think Jaskier quite bought it. 

Jaskier was, he supposed, his bard. He followed the Witcher around more often than not, and he certainly didn’t hear him sing about anyone else anymore. 

They danced around each other, traveling together for weeks or months, until Jaskier took some flight of fancy and disappeared. He always came back though. They always found each other. 

For the first year or so, Geralt loathed him. Jaskier was the gravel in his boot, the chip in his blade, a chafing irritant at his heel, a buzzing locust that made him want to deafen himself. Their communication mostly consisted of Geralt telling Jaskier to shut up, and Jaskier cheerfully refusing. 

Jaskier was irresponsible, was the problem. He was far too loud, and got underfoot, and when they’d met he was far too young, no longer a child, but not yet twenty. By his garb and manners Geralt could tell he was obviously some highborn pup, running from his duties and responsibilities, fueled by some whimsical fantasy of adventure. Before meeting Geralt, he suspected Jaskier had never gone wanting a day in his life. At the beginning, he complained near endlessly.

He didn’t really know when that’d changed, when he’d started to mind Jaskier’s absence more than his presence. Perhaps it was that Geralt had grown used to him, or perhaps Jaskier had matured. They’d traveled on and off together for many years now, he was bound to have grown up a little. At the very least the _complaining_ had lessened as he grew used to sleeping on the ground, and eating in places that owed the bulk of their success to the fact of there being no alternatives in the vicinity. 

Maybe it was that Jaskier didn’t stay away for so long anymore - no longer the months-long stretches they’d been apart before, and so it made his absence more of an interruption to Geralt’s routine than his presence was. 

It really was irritating, the way Jaskier had wormed his way into Geralt’s life, found a way to make him feel cold without him. 

And yet. 

When Jaskier was around, Geralt discovered that feelings didn’t have to be big, painful, cold things that left him trembling and hating. He found inside himself feelings like a candle - small, warm, creeping things that glowed within him. 

Geralt shared his rooms, his tent, bedroll, meal, anything that Jaskier asked. Somewhere along the way, it had become very difficult to refuse him. Jaskier would strut up to him in some town, or in the middle of the fucking woods after having been away, announce that he was back, and that would be that. 

“Might I share your room?”

“As you wish.”

The first time Geralt said it, Jaskier had been away far too long. Some family matters to attend to, he’d said. 

Geralt hated it. The silence, once comforting, was far too big, too empty without Jaskier’s endless chattering, humming, singing, strumming. It made his ears hurt. 

He’d even taken to, on occasion, humming himself. It wasn’t the same, of course, but it filled the silence well enough. And of course, Roach was always an excellent and unargumentative conversation partner. 

Humming the bard’s melodies and talking to his horse. What had he become?

Geralt smelled him the second he set foot in the tavern, a familiar oaken aroma, touches of floral oils and the earthiness of a man who’d come fresh off the road. It hit him as soon as the door opened, and Geralt couldn’t help leaning in towards it. A rush of relief coursed through his veins as Jaskier approached. His bard had returned. 

“Have you missed me?” Jaskier slid into the seat opposite Geralt and flagged down a barmaid. 

_Yes, I can’t stand it when you go. Every time you do hurts worse than the last._

“Hmm,” he took a swig from his tankard, “You’re back.”

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier nodded, winking at the barmaid when she returned with his ale, “My family grew tiresome-”

“Tired of you, you mean,” Geralt cut him off, though the jab had none of the venom he was sure Jaskier had built a tolerance to.

“Hey, that was _funny_. Quite mean, but funny! You’re in a good mood,” Jaskier smiled.

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, as I was saying. I heard tell of a Bruxa terrorizing this poor village and thought I might find you here, doing your grand old hero-slayer-of-beasts-protector-of-humanity thing.”

“It’s just a tribe of Rusalki,” Geralt replied, “Humans always assume the worst, but the boys have all been found drowned in the river. No sign of a fight.”

“But what a way to go,” Jaskier said with a sigh, staring off wistfully, “What will you do about it?”

“Nothing tonight,” Geralt said, “I’ll find them in the morning. They’re skittish things, I’ll tell them to leave and they will.”

“Right. Where are we off to after?” he asked.

“Ghoul problem a few towns over,” Geralt said, “If you’re up for it.”

“Naturally,” Jaskier grinned. His eyes were bright, already wondering what words he would rhyme with “ghoul.”

Geralt smiled at him. It was a small smile that lived somewhere between humor and admiration. He smiled because a candle glowed gently in his chest where there had been only a half-burnt wick for months. His bard had returned, life could resume. 

Jaskier met his gaze after a moment, “Good mood indeed,” he muttered, taking note of Geralt’s pleased expression.

“I must ask,” he continued, louder, “Might I share your room?”

“As you wish,” was the phrase that tumbled from Geralt’s lips. A little too quick, a little too earnest. 

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, but said nothing of it. Geralt knew he’d noticed. 

Geralt slept on the tavern floor that night, Jaskier gently snoring on the rough straw mattress. Moonlight shone in through the drafty window, pale and weak. 

Geralt repeated that phrase over and over in his head. _As you wish. As you wish. As you wish._

It meant yes, it meant anything you want, it meant I’ll make it so, it meant I love you. 

Fuck, when had _that_ happened? Geralt couldn’t believe it. He’d fallen in love with the damn bard and nobody had had the decency to tell him. 

_Witchers don’t have feelings_ indeed. 

Maybe it was when Jaskier had first shoved him, protesting and murderous, into a bath and washed his hair. Geralt had protested loudly, splashing and sputtering and telling Jaskier to _get the fuck out right now._ Jaskier wouldn’t have it. He’d retorted, _absolutely not, you saved my life today! I am going to wash your hair and let you use my lovely oils and you are going to like it!_ As Jaskier’s fingers scrubbed gently over his scalp, he relaxed. By the end he was leaning into the touch, still scowling, but no longer cursing. 

It could have been when he looked upon Geralt, blood-covered and black-eyed, feral and lost to the world. He hadn’t run screaming, but crossed his arms and said, “You look awfully silly. I got a room in town, let's go.” Geralt had tried to back away, tell the bard to leave, that he shouldn’t see him like this. Jaskier told him to fuck off.

Or it was bit by tiny bit, a little more each time Jaskier dressed a wound of his, or sang that ridiculous Toss a Coin song at a bar, or hummed by the campfire, or squirmed when Geralt cleaned a rabbit, or came back at his grump with a witty remark that really made Geralt _think_.

It was ridiculous. Geralt was being ridiculous. 

He couldn’t shake that phrase from his mind though. It was tender in a way that he’d never allowed himself to be. New territory, dangerous. He felt a rush when he uttered it. It was I love you, but it wasn’t. Saying it outright felt forbidden. Geralt wasn’t allowed to love, and certainly not allowed to love his best friend. An oblivious Jaskier who he couldn’t have all the way was far better than a disgusted Jaskier who he’d never see again. 

But would Jaskier truly react that way? Geralt knew him to be remarkably compassionate, deep down. 

Maybe it was the words themselves. Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken them, or had them spoken to him. A Witcher’s life had little to do with love.

The next afternoon, after the Rusalki had been dealt with, he and Jaskier were preparing to set out. Jaskier had gone to secure rations, and Geralt was in the stable he’d rented getting Roach ready for the journey. He checked her shoes - they’d likely need to be done the next time they stopped - saddled her, looked over her eyes and ears. 

Geralt rubbed his palm over her nose, just the way he knew she liked.

“I love you,” he said to the horse, quick and quiet as he could manage. 

Easy, except that Jaskier was not a horse, and would not simply stand there and stare at him. 

“Hmm.”

“Is Ms. Roachy ready to go?” A voice came from a few feet away. Jaskier, back already.

Geralt whirled, and gave a stiff yes. 

Jaskier approached, and as he moved past Geralt in the cramped stall, rested his hand on his lower back - just for a second. It was something Jaskier had done a thousand times, Geralt was sure, but it felt different now. Now that he knew. The candle in his chest flared for just a moment. 

And then the hand was gone, the spell broken. 

And that was that. 

From then on, Geralt took what opportunity he could to return Jaskier’s casual touches. He reciprocated, he was… _polite_. Or as polite as he could manage. He tried. Geralt couldn’t, or didn’t want to, or shouldn’t tell Jaskier he loved him. But surely this was allowed, surely this was good enough. Actions were better than words, Geralt was certain he’d heard that somewhere. 

The closeness went from awkward and forced from Geralt’s lack of practice, to something comfortable and sacred over the following months. But that made the absence of it sharper, colder. He’d get angry sometimes, lash out at Jaskier. How could he not get it? Why could he not understand what Geralt was telling him? 

As you wish. 

Anything Jaskier asked for, Geralt couldn’t help but oblige with that simple phrase. 

Jaskier, for his part, had become a great deal more needy. Asking Geralt to hand him things that were well within his own reach, things he didn’t even really need. 

Peculiar. 

Jaskier had been away just two weeks, but it felt like far longer to Geralt. He was camped in a mossy green wood, the ground soft and springy. It was good for sleeping, and for silencing his footfalls as he hunted. The trees were mammoth, damp roots protruding and thick enough to serve for benches. 

Geralt had caught a pair of hares. He ate one, the other still suspended over his dying campfire. 

A familiar scent cut through the clean, green smell of the woods. It arced high over the cooking meat and woodsmoke, and Geralt could fucking _feel_ his pupils dilate as he caught it. 

Floral, oaky, earthy. Home. 

“You’ve come back to me,” Geralt said. Jaskier sat beside him on the tree root, so close that the fabric of their clothes brushed together at the shoulder and knee. If either of them shifted just slightly, they’d be touching.

“Have you missed me? You must be going insane without your bard” Jaskier said, “Don’t know what you do without me, quite frankly.”

_I miss you every second that you are not by my side. I wish never to be parted from you._

“Hmm.”

“So I thought I ought to come back, make sure you aren’t in too much trouble,” Jaskier continued, “And if there’s enough to spare,” Geralt saw his tongue flick ever so quickly over his pink lips, “I might share your dinner.”

Geralt pointed to the second hare, and waited just a beat too long to speak.

“As you wish,” the words caught strangely in his throat. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand to go on like this. Something inside him was breaking, very slowly. 

Jaskier gave pause, staring at the forest floor a beat before nodding. He looked lost in thought. 

“And,” Jaskier looked over at him, “Your tent, perhaps?” 

Geralt looked straight into Jaskier’s jewel blue eyes, searching, imploring him to understand.

When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“As you wish.”

Jaskier’s mouth fell slightly open, and he looked - hopeful? Relieved? Glad? Confused? Geralt couldn’t tell. Did he know? Had he finally got it?

Geralt suddenly felt self-conscious. He looked away, discarding the bits of bone and sinew that were all that was left of his super. He wiped his hands over his trousers. 

He couldn’t take the quiet. Jaskier just sitting there, staring and silent.

“There’s a town about a day and a half’s travel from here, livestock are going missing,” Geralt said, “It’ll be messy.”

“I’ll get a song out of it, I expect,” Jaskier replied. He was quiet, his voice soft and contemplative.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier’s eyes - ever perceptive - clung to one spot on Geralt’s chest.

A flesh wound, but he moved carefully around it.

“Have you got yourself hurt again?” Jaskier asked. He stood up, in front of Geralt. 

Geralt stared up at him. He knew what was coming. 

“Hmm.”

“Well go on then, let me see. I’ve just stocked up on bandages,” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, staring insistently down.

Geralt looked away, tugging at his shirt collar to reveal the slash. It really was barely a scratch, hardly warranted the thorough treatment Jaskier was sure to deliver.

Jaskier winced, and it was all Geralt could do to not roll his eyes.

“I’ll clean it and dress it for you?” he said, moving to retrieve the supplies from his bag. 

“As you wish,” _I wish you would._

Jaskier moved closer, kneeling before Geralt and pulling his shirt out of the way. Geralt parted his knees so Jaskier could get nearer. Jaskier obliged, moving in so close that Geralt could feel the warmth from his body. The scent of him so close was damn intoxicating. 

He was gentle as always. Far gentler than the Witcher deserved. As he finished, he let his hand rest against Geralt’s freshly bandaged chest. 

“Good as new,” Jaskier said, and moved to pull his hand away.

Geralt stopped him. He grabbed his wrist and held it in place.

“Thank you,” he said, “You- you’re good at that.”

Jaskier’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times before he found his voice. Had Geralt done that to him? 

“You protect me,” he finally said, “You take care of me, you’ve made me famous.”

He looked Geralt in the eye, “It’s the least I can do, what with you being so kind as to put up with me.”

Geralt looked away, “Is that what you think? That I only tolerate you?”

Jaskier shrugged, noncommittal.

“Stupid bard,” Geralt growled. He roughly grabbed at the back of Jaskier’s neck. He stared intently down, imploring him to just _get it_ . _Please_ , he thought.

Jaskier matched his gaze for a beat, and then.

And then.

Their lips crashed together at Jaskier’s instigation, and it was all Geralt could do not to pin him down on the forest floor right then and there. He let himself relax into the kiss, the wanting he’d pent up for so long escaping in that one, blissful moment. 

Jaskier’s enthusiasm shone like the sun. He was hungry for it, pushing back against Geralt, nipping, _smiling_. 

He’d wanted this for a long time.

Geralt didn’t know how he could have been so blind.

The candle in his chest roared into a bonfire. 

When they parted, Jaskier was breathless and flushed, his hands tangled in Geralt’s hair. 

He looked up at him as though he hung the very stars in the night sky. 

Geralt thought he’d never seen anyone so beautiful in his life, and he smiled contentedly down at his Dandelion, his bard, _his._

“Will you do that again?” he asked.

Geralt’s smile widened, and he uttered, “As you wish.”


End file.
